


White Winds of Winterfell

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the (dragon)wolves of winterfell [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Not Jon or Sansa), F/M, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jon Snow is King in the North, Married Jonsa, No Spoilers for Season 7, Post-Season/Series 06, R plus L equals J, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa-centric, kissing cousins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Aside from the disgraced Umbers and the destroyed Boltons and their vassals, the North had rallied behind House Stark when it returned: but Sansa was no longer a little bird, that believed in sweet songs. She trusted those who had fought beside her husband, who had pledged themselves to her, and their issue. But she would never be a wolf without a pack again, and would destroy anyone who sought to betray her family.Just a short fic about what the future may hold for House Stark, in my wildest, most optimistic dreams.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa ran a comb through the curls of her sweet boy's hair, humming quietly to herself. Ellon was a boisterous child, but he knew well to mind his mother and father, and sit when told. Sansa was determined to have him presentable, when the the loyal Lords and Ladies of their vassal houses descended upon Winterfell, in all their rowdy glory. They were coming to celebrate his younger brother's nameday. So Sansa tugged the knots from her son’s hair, and he sat obediently in her lap, distracted by the wooden direwolf his father had carved for him. Jon was not especially skilled at carpentry, but it wasn’t terrible by any means, and Ellon adored the little toy. Sansa had forced herself to turn away, and brush sentimental tears from her eyes, when Jon had first gifted the little wooden statue to their son and heir. Even all these years later, she sometimes could not contain the storm of emotions within. She was the Queen in the North, famed for her stoicism and resilience, and yet her heart melted at the strangest of things.

Sansa had weathered the rage of Southron Kings and Queens. She had held Winterfell with their bannermen when her then-brother had ridden to war against the undead. She had refused the crown of the North when Jon’s true parentage was revealed; it had been her suggestion that they wed, forever denying their enemies a foothold to come between them. She had beheaded Petyr Baelish herself, with a sword almost too heavy for her to lift. _She had fed Ramsay Bolton to his own dogs._ And yet, her heart could still be moved when her husband’s kindness reminded her of her father.

Sansa abruptly set the comb in her hands aside, startling Ellon, who let his animated hands drop into his lap. Big Stark grey eyes regarded her in surprise, tinged with apprehension. She pressed a kiss to his brow, pressing him close to her as she murmured; “Forgive me, sweetling. Your hair is perfectly untangled now. Shall we go and find your brothers?”

“Yes!” Ellon hopped off her lap immediately, always quick to forgive. He was as enthusiastic and kind-spirited as Bran. Sansa did not allow him to climb; not even the mounting block in the courtyard, that younger men used to learn how to mount a horse. She was over-cautious, but gracious, and Ellon never seemed to realise that anything was amiss.

They crossed the warm stone hallway a few paces, to enter the nursery. Two chubby faces turned to face her, already dressed in their finest furs, for a raven had announced that morning that the caravan from Bear Island would arrive today. Aside from the disgraced Umbers and the destroyed Boltons and their vassals, the North had rallied behind House Stark when it returned: but Sansa was no longer a little bird, that believed in sweet songs. She trusted those who had fought beside her husband, who had pledged themselves to her, and their issue. But she would never be a wolf without a pack again, and would destroy anyone who sought to betray her family. Northern hardiness didn’t hold with flagrant frippery, but Sansa had learnt from the vipers in the South how courtesy was a sword; dresses could be armour, and food could be poison. So she dressed her children well, in the colours of House Stark, and ignored all whispers that had followed her at the start of her reign as Queen consort. Many disagreed with Jon taking her to wife, quite aside from their shared blood. She’d wed Lannisters and Boltons. She looked like a Tully and commanded the respect and men of Arryn. There were many Lords who wanted Jon to marry their pretty daughters instead, their Manderly, Cerwyn, Dustin, Glover girls. Sansa would not hear of it, and to her eternal gratitude, neither would Jon. They were Starks, and they belonged together. They could not be lone wolves, and hope to survive.

Now, not yet a decade later, Sansa had done what even her fertile mother could not. She had given her lord husband - the King in the North, no less - three sons, one babe after another. The North had sung her praises from the battlements when Ellon was born, a hefty boy, with the look of his father, the Stark look; and their respect for her had only grown when Sedrick was born. Cregan was their youngest; her chubby babe, her only summer child, who rolled over immediately at the sight of Sansa when she entered the nursery. They had chosen not to name their babes after any Starks in living memory; too much sorrow lay there, and their children did not need to live with shadows at their backs. Instead, they chose legendary ancestors, great Kings of Winter from ages past. There were no whispers about her allegiance now. Sansa was the Stark matriarch and the undisputed Queen in the North. She was not the regent, however, nor did she wish to be. Jon was her King and her husband, and she loved him more than she had believed her heart capable. She had finally found a knight worthy of her childhood songs; her girlish dreamings. A man who was brave, gentle and strong.

Sansa swept regally into the nursery, where the children’s maid, Wylla, was seated with her two youngest boys. Ser Podrick sat guard, as always. He had sworn himself to Jon, Sansa, and House Stark, when Brienne had died fighting the Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen. The Dragon Queen would not listen to reason, caring only for the Iron Throne, when the White Walkers had been marching ever closer. But winter had frozen the lands of Westeros; and the Seven Kingdoms were quite sick of conquerors, claiming they were the rightful ruler. Like the Mad Queen Cersei Lannister, she had not taken long to overthrow. Two of her three dragons had turned on her, when she had tried to kill Jon.

Jon’s parentage had finally been accepted as truth when he walked from the flames of her only remaining loyal dragon, unscathed and unharmed, but with that truth came only more danger. The Mad Queen would not believe that Jon didn’t want the cursed crown of the Iron Throne. She had roared for his execution, right then and there. Before anyone could get close to Jon, Daenerys’ own dragon had torn open her throat. It was the most shocking thing Jon had ever seen, he whispered to Sansa, many moons later; the beautiful, stubborn Targaryen woman, with her slashed, crimson throat gaping open obscenely. Her pale hands clutched onto the swords Aegon the Conqueror had melted into his awful throne, grasping for strength. Daenerys had met her end the same way as her father; choked to death in a pool of her own blood, before the Iron Throne, while her handmaid and guards had screamed in horror.

Jon had the good sense to refuse the Iron Throne, and all claim to the Targaryen dynasty. He had spent his entire life wanting only to be a Stark; he wasn’t about to abandon his home, or his pregnant wife, for the damned pit of King’s Landing. But as the last Targaryen, the last King of Westeros, Jon had ordered the Iron Throne melted into steel to forge new weapons, and the dissolution of the Seven Kingdoms as one. All that mattered was destroying the White Walkers. Jon had led the armies of Westeros into battle, astride a dragon; forever destroying the icy threat of the monsters from Beyond the Wall. There were many secrets Sansa knew she still did not know about the demise of those nightmares; but she did not push for answers her husband could not give. She had cried and raged when Bran had told her of his intentions to live Beyond the Wall, in the Land of Always Winter. Sansa knew in that moment, and she knows it still; she will never see her only remaining brother again. Arya and Jon were all she had left; and even Arya chose not to remain in Winterfell forever.

But now, Sansa has her three precious boys.

“Mother!” Sedrick squealed; rushing to her skirts when she entered the room. Ghost was lounging by the fire, red flames dancing in the glossy sheen of his fur; he opened one blood-red eye to check on the little boy, and promptly closed it again, when only Sansa and Ellon entered the room.

Sansa laughed as her second son clutched at her dress, a light, charming sound, free from the burdens she kept hidden in her heart. Pod nodded respectfully to her, from his usual chair. Pod was the boys’ guard, and he dutifully followed them everywhere, remaining with the youngest if the others had lessons or other tasks to attend to. Pod had wanted to pledge himself to Jon’s Kingsguard, but they are not Southrons. They keep to the old gods, and they hide behind no Kingsguard in the North. Their castle guards are worth far more than any craven, white-cloaked child beater.

A few short days after they were wed, Sansa had ordered her mother’s Sept to be destroyed; much to Jon’s shock. To everyone’s shock. It tore at Sansa’s heart to do so. She knew the Sept had been a symbol of her father’s love for her mother. Building it, Ned had demonstrated to the former Lady Stark he wanted her to feel welcome and comfortable in her cold, Northern castle. Sansa herself had found much reassurance there also, once, as a naive girl. But Sansa Stark had learnt much from her incarceration with the Lannisters, and within Baelish’s clutches. It truly doesn’t matter what gods she believes in. Only what she is _seen_ to believe in.

There is no room for the Faith in Winterfell, of that Sansa can be certain. There can never be room for insidious Southron sensibilities again, if they want the North to survive. So her little wolves have no septon to lecture them. No septas will teach her daughters embroidery and dancing, and how to abide quietly while their husbands mistreat them. If any man dares lift a hand to her future Princesses, Sansa will have Ghost rip that hand from them. The Sers they have now, are the last Knights the North will ever have. The North remembers. And they remember the old gods, not the New. Their way is the old way.

Sansa remained with her children in their warm, cosy nursery all afternoon. Wylla helped her keep them entertained, until rousing horns sounded out, announcing the arrival of the Mormonts. Heart beating with cheerful anticipation, Sansa hurried Ellon and Sedrick along, with Pod and Ghost steadfast sentries, down to Jon’s Throne room, which was once her Father’s Great Hall. Little Cregan took no interest in the exciting proceedings, promptly falling asleep in Sansa’s arms. They reached the Throne room with a clatter of feet on bare stone, and the incessant chatter of small children. Sansa smiled indulgently at her husband, who met them at the east doorway, obviously having predicted which door she would enter from. The pageantry of it was important of course; they must be seated loftily on their thrones, magnanimously looking down on all about them, before their vassals could be admitted and welcomed. It was not the way of her father, but her father had never been a King. Appearances were important, even amongst their friends. Sansa had nothing but the greatest respect for the Lady of Bear Island, who had ever been Jon’s supporter. The young girl had grown into a fierce warrior in her own right, though she would never be as unruly and wild as the likes of Brienne or Arya. But Sansa would never again allow anyone to say that Starks were weak, with damages in their armour that could be exploited. Danger can come from anywhere, and she refused to be weak, ever again. They must always present a strong, united House and Kingdom, for all the little spies that were surely chirping to their enemies in the South.

Still, Sansa could not quell the rush of affection she felt in her belly, nor the smile on her face. Her friends were coming to celebrate Sedrick's nameday. And Jon, her beautiful Jon, stood before her in his black jerkin and armour, a silver crown nestled in his dark hair. He was every inch a King, for all his reversed sigil and banners proclaimed him a bastard. The black banners with white wolves hung throughout the Throne room, and their children had never known anything different. Though Sansa missed the familiar gray and white of her youth, there was something freeing about a banner of their own. They were the Starks of Winterfell now, and it felt right that their new reign should clear away all the destruction of the past; not only their own horrors, but the whole Targaryen madness and monstrosity that had plagued the Seven Kingdoms, since the Aegon the damned Conqueror darkened their skies, three hundred years ago.

Before she could step into the former Hall, Jon leaned forward and kissed her, gently, lovingly, but deeply. She smiled against his mouth, cuddling her baby close as she shifted to make sure Jon didn’t crush their son in his enthusiasm. After a moment of indulgence, she pressed lightly on his chest, and Jon moved back, a mischievous twinkle in his laughing grey eyes.

“Jon Stark, you are incorrigible,” she scolded, completely unable to speak sternly or withhold her smiles from him.

“So they tell me,” he agreed, unabashed, and offered his once sister, now Queen, his arm. Together, they walked to their thrones. Their seat of power; the warm home they had carved for themselves amidst the icy, bleak wilds of the North, with the blood of their kin and the fire in Jon's veins.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa sipped her cup of ale and absorbed the atmosphere of the room. Candle and torchlight flickered at intermediate distances, casting pools of light and shadow across her bannermen, as they ate heartily of the soups and pies the cooks had slaved over, chortling and spilling ale as they exchanged tall tales. Only the Mormont and Reed contingents had arrived so far, but Sedrick’s fifth nameday was not for another sennight yet. Soon the castle would be filled with familiar, much-missed faces. Tonight’s feast was shaping up to be a happy one; the little wolves were so delighted by the presence of their tiny Reed cousin, that they quite forgot their impatience about the upcoming festivities.

Eddard Reed was a quiet, shy boy, but a cheerful one. He allowed himself to be dragged around the feasting Hall and introduced to everyone by Ellon, who was his closest in age, and his most stringent supporter. The two boys adored each other. According to some approving gossips, they were like Robb and Jon rekindled. It was certainly true that little Lord Reed had inherited the Tully look from his father. Sansa took another sip of ale to hide the shaking of her hands. The longing she felt for Bran was like a wound that would not heal, and having his son here made the lack of him even more apparent.

Bran had married Meera before a heart tree in Greywater Watch, once it was evident she was with child. But even the birth of a son was not enough to keep him here, safe in their Kingdom. After successfully petitioning Jon and Sansa to give his son the Reed name, Bran had travelled to what remained of the Wall, and then Beyond. Bran and Meera had been desperate to ensure her loyal House did not die out. Crannogmen were hardly the concern of most Northern Houses, famously scorned for their mysterious traditions. But a Stark married to a Reed was enough to have the attention of everyone, especially those who might have backed Ned’s only remaining son, if not for his legs, over a daughter married to her cousin-by-blood. Bran had no interest in ruling anywhere as lord, let alone King, but his son was another matter entire. To save themselves much heartache in the future, they had all agreed that it was much safer for little Eddard to become the Lord Reed, with Meera serving as his protector and the Lady of Greywater Watch until her son matured.

Bran had travelled with Tormund and the Free Folk, as people had hesitantly taken to calling them. When Jon had disbanded the Night’s Watch, as it was, he granted the men who had taken the Black a choice of keeps and holdfasts along the shattered remains of the Wall. He had gifted fewer castles and the Gift to the Free Folk. A grudging respect had grown between the two former enemy factions, who had fought beside one another to defeat the Second Long Night. Cautiously, they kept the territory between the two distinct, and very wide.

The former Night’s Watch Brothers had been released from their vows, but Jon didn’t give them free reign. He gave them a simple choice; remain at the castles along the Wall, or leave the North upon pain of death. He didn't want former rapists, murderers and thieves roaming unchecked in his lands, regardless of their bravery fighting against the White Walkers. The Northern lords would not have stood for it, and Sansa had fought too long and hard to turn Jon from a commander into a somewhat talented politician. She refused to lose him over his love of wildlings and Brothers of the Night’s Watch.

A small band of men had made their way south, while the rest remained under the dominion of the Lord Commander of the Rangers, as Jon had dubbed the new Watch. They took wives, had children, and built settlements where barren land had once sat. Jon had quickly and efficicently established an entirely new territory of villages with loyal men, while Kingdoms such as the Westerlands and the Riverlands collapsed in on themselves, under the continued strain of war. Most Kingdoms were still pathetically raging over who should be king in their territory, with incessant battles and bloodshed. It wouldn’t be long until there were only a few members of any great Houses left. Good, thought Sansa viciously, for it mattered nought.

The Starks had given their blood and innocence to the realm, fighting undead horrors and crazed tyrants. Sansa had nothing left to give, and any land beyond the Neck was not her concern. Let them drown in blood; all that mattered was the North. Her heart had grown cold to the cries of men who had never shown an ounce of compassion for those poor wretches dependant on their kindness.

Across the room, her untainted children played, trailed by Ghost, while Pod watched, ever vigilant, nearby. When her boys were grown, Sansa was going to gift that man a castle, and watch his face turn as red as dragon fire in embarrassment. For Podrick Payne had surely been a gift from the old gods. No Knight was more devoted to his duty. He watched patiently as Ellon wielded an imaginary sword, and Eddard laughed in delight. Sansa could not tear her eyes from the tiny child smiling broadly at her son’s antics. She saw Bran, shining out of every inch of his delicate features.

If Lyanna Mormont noticed where her gaze lingered, she was not tactless enough to mention it. Maturity had tempered her sharp tongue, a little. The girl could still stare down an army if the need arose, of that Sansa had no doubt. They were seated together at the royal table; Sansa next to her husband, and Meera, who was entirely distracted by Jon’s dry humour sat at his left. Sansa forced herself out of her memories and into the present, turning to the reticent girl at her right.

“You have not yet taken a husband then, my lady?” She enquired, knowing full well the Lady of Bear Island scorned every suitor that came knocking on her doors.

Sansa remembered Lyanna proclaiming that she would never be a great beauty, but looking at her dark Northern features in the flickering candlelight, she seemed fiercely, if non-traditionally so. There was something about the set of her jaw, her long dark tresses and dark, stormy eyes, that was admirable.

Lyanna winced at her question, and rebuffed it, as gently as she was capable of doing. “No, Your Grace.”

Sansa smiled. This time, the movement of her lips was genuine. Lyanna and Arya had much in common, and it was gladdening to her heart.

“I freely admit I had ulterior motives in inviting you to sup with us a sennight before Sedrick’s feast.” Sansa informed the younger woman, who turned to her sharply, a look of alarm on her face. Lyanna quickly smoothed it into one of careful indifference, but Sansa had seen it, just the same.

“House Mormont is always happy to attend upon Your Graces. We are proud to serve House Stark.” Lyanna replied, looking as though she would give anything to be safely in her own keep at that particular moment. Which greenboy did she suspect Sansa was about to force her into matrimony with? Whomever she feared, Sansa highly doubted she would have guessed the truth.

“Lyanna, you need not fear me. I know better than anyone the dangers of unsuitable marriages.” Sansa spoke quietly, mindful of the girl’s pride. She did not want to offend her allies, nor yet her friends. “And I too have been inundated with ravens begging for matches for my sons.” Brazenly, she continued; “Oh, they dress their intentions in pretty words, but I know what they want, just the same.”

Sansa snorted in derision, finally placing her cup of ale on the table before her. The merriment continued all around them; Ser Davos picked a drunken young crannogman from the floor and pushed him back into his seat, huffing with amused annoyance.

Lyanna tipped her dark hair in acknowledgement of her Queen’s words. The two women sat in companionable silence a little longer, before Sansa picked up her thread again: “I believe there is a way to ease the minds of your agitated advisors, my lady, without marriage until a fair amount of moons have passed.”

“Your Grace?” Lyanna couldn’t hide the confusion in her tone. Sansa deliberately held the younger girl’s gaze, then slowly, purposefully, returned her eyes to her eldest son.

Lyanna’s dark eyes widened with great shock, but she kept her composure, carefully replacing her fork onto her half-empty plate. She trembled faintly, but betrayed no other emotion.

“There are too many years between us, Your Grace,” Lyanna eventually gave voice to her protest, and Sansa smirked, unsurprised by her initial reaction.

“You wish to leave Bear Island in the hands of a capable cousin, do you not? A young man of your choosing when he comes of age?” Sansa reasoned, aware of Lyanna’s plans for Bear Island. The girl was under no illusions that she would eventually have to marry, though she’d done an excellent job of remaining unencumbered thus far. “There are not so many years between you and Ellon. In seven years, he will be five-and-ten, and you shall be five-and-twenty, my lady. I could not think of a better Queen and advisor for my son, than the woman who gave my husband his own crown.”

Lyanna shook her head, denial hot on her tongue. “I am not fit for Queenship.”

“I have begun to believe only those who do not seek it with blind, hungry ambition are fit for a crown.” Sansa countered, idly, as though she had not whispered vaguely treasonous words inches from her own King.

Jon was well aware of her thoughts on the matter. And they were both in agreement that Westeros was not ready for such revolutionary thoughts. Ellon was a sweet boy; with the right woman at his side, and a stout Northern education, he would become a good King. Sansa told Lyanna as such, but still the little Mormont did not say a word.

Unexpectedly, Maester Samwell Tarly shuffled up to the royal table, leaning over to whisper into Jon’s ear. The King looked up at his fat friend, the only man he had allowed to leave the former Night’s Watch, and still remain in the North. It was a reward, for services to the Realm. Sam had found Dragonglass on Dragonstone and had fought to get it where it was needed most. He had saved them all.

Jon’s brow crinkled in discontent, but he made no move to leave his chair, promptly replying to Maester Tarly with words too quiet for Sansa to hear. Sam shuffled off briskly to do Jon’s bidding, and Jon re-engaged Meera in conversation, sparing Sansa a significant look above his charming smile. He had something important to tell her later, but they had to remain calm for their guests. He turned back to Meera, denying Sansa the temptation to demand answers in public.

Sansa curled her fingers into fists beneath the table, feeling ice creep through her veins. On and on it went; the endless cycle, the eternal game of thrones. They would never be free of it.

“My House would die with me, Your Grace.” Lyanna murmured, breaking into Sansa’s melancholy. For once, Lyanna looked the part of a scared, small girl. She was a Lady of a great House, utterly without close relations, and only the oaths of men as her armour. And words were wind. Sansa looked at the last Mormont, as saw herself of bygone years; the last living Stark, alone and friendless in the Red Keep.

Queen Sansa shook her head, her flaming Tully hair bouncing at the vigorous movement. “I would never allow it. _Jon_ would not allow it. Your first son would have the North, of course, but a younger son or daughter could inherit Bear Island under the Mormont banner. Much as we did for House Reed. You could live there, raise them in the seat of your ancestors, until Jon’s death if you wish. I know the misery of being torn from your home and placed into the arms of another House. You cannot think I would force such a thing upon you, my dear Lady Mormont?”

She framed the last as a question, dropping her courtly tone. Lyanna remained silent, but her dark eyes roamed across Sansa’s face, and she did not turn away until Jon announced the arrival of dessert. Sansa settled back into her throne, cradling her ale. She knew better than to push. Somehow, she did not believe it would be necessary in this case, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

The preparations for her second son’s fifth name-day were well underway. Winterfell was full to bursting with treasured guests, but fury had taken hold of Sansa’s heart and was difficult to repress. She would be forced to tell her little wolf that Arya would not be there. Earlier that night, Maester Tarly had received a raven during the feast, from her wayward sister, who had promised to be present for every quinquennial name-day of their children. But Arya was not coming.

Arya had kept her promise with Ellon, who had adored everything about his fierce Aunt. Ellon paraded around on Nymeria’s back, and rolled around sparring with anyone who have him, in order to show off. He had generally revelled in the mayhem that Arya naturally caused with her rambunctious nature, no matter that Arya had matured greatly during the War of the Five Kings, and the Second Long Night. But apparently, Sedrick did not warrant the same attention. Sansa had been forced to ask the Reeds to remain in Winterfell for another two months after the other guests would depart. She knew Eddard Reed’s presence would soften the blow to her son's pride, but she did not relish Sedrick’s inevitable tears. Thankfully little Cregan was still too young to understand the significance. But Ellon would believe he was his Aunt’s favourite from hereon, and there would be no way to dissuade him.

“How can she insult us like this?” Sansa seethed, slamming her hands against the solid oak table in their chambers, where she and Jon usually broke their fast.

Jon sighed, pulling at the sleeves of his jerkin, beginning to undress. The crown weighed heavy on him; his once rich, dark hair had gradually begun to streak with snow. Sansa had loved those small reminders of maturity; proud she had wedded a man, not a boy. Jon was her rock, her White Wolf; every line of age and scar of war only served to remind her of his worth.

He tossed away his heaviest clothing, before drawing her close.

“We always knew this day would come.” Jon reminded her softly. He was correct of course; they had discussed how Arya would be unable to keep her promises. Ned Stark’s youngest daughter no longer saw home when she looked at Winterfell.

For a moment, Sansa hated Jon’s unshakeable calm. She wanted him to rage and scream and demand Arya was brought home. But Arya no longer considered Winterfell her place, and would never submit to being dragged back by her hair. She deserved more respect than that.

Sansa sagged in her husband’s strong arms, so very tired of these endless hurts. All she had wanted was her family returned; and yet, they wanted nothing of home. Nothing of her.

“What aren’t you telling me?” She whispered into Jon’s throat. She was half hoping the words would be lost, beneath the crackle of the roaring hearth.

He sighed, tightening his grip on her. As if he feared she would slip away. Depending on his words, she may do; the wind was not so frigid that she would not brave the Godswood, even at this late hour, if her rage was too wild to be tempered by her deep love for him.

“There have been reports, Sansa.” Jon began, but evidently could not bring himself to continue.

Sansa pulled back, remaining in Jon’s embrace, but taking in his storm-grey eyes, which were clouded and conflicted. What secret was he so afraid to share? Her husband, who had faced down the Dragon Queen and White Walkers? A horrid thought came to her unbidden, of Arya, sick and shivering, unable to come to Sedrick’s celebrations for fear of spreading disease.

“What kind of reports? Illness?” She demanded, panic clawing at her throat. It did not matter where Arya was; so long as she was hale and healthy.

“No, Sansa, be calm. I wouldn’t have kept such things from you, not even the rumour.”

She nodded at the truth of his words. There were few secrets between them now, only the horrors the did not care to speak of, lest their minds were broken by them.

“There have been rumours of lumber-cutting.” Jon said quickly, eager to assuage her fears of a plague; “Forging. Ship-building, without our leave.”

“Ship-building?” Sansa repeated, bewildered, “Under Arya’s orders? Arya has left the Wolfswood?”

Everyone knew ship-building in the North was done in White Harbour, under the watchful eye of the Manderlys. Only the Islanders; the Skaggosi, and House Mormont, built their own small boats - but they could hardly be called ships.

Jon’s careful apathy crumbled into a grimace of true horror. “No. She still resides in her keep, at Sea Dragon Point. Trees are being felled in the Wolfswood, so they say, for a fleet in the Bay of Ice. An _armoured_ fleet.”

“Lyanna Mormont told you of this.” Sansa said, not framing it as a question, because it was suddenly clear as water to her. Bear Island was not so very far from Sea Dragon Point, after all. She had formerly rejoiced that Lyanna had hosted Arya several times, hoping the girls would find a firm friendship, being so very similar in character. She had hoped Lyanna would convince Arya to visit home more often, but it was not to be. Arya was too wilful.

“You cannot suspect Arya is arming herself against us.” Sansa pleaded, horrified at the implications. It could not be. And yet…

Arya had settled in Sea Dragon Point, an ancient ruin of scattered keeps built by the First Men, taking with her Nymeria’s cross-breed pack, a band of loyal men that had fought beside her against the White Walkers, and bizarrely, one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards. Sansa was quite certain he was Arya’s lover, but she would never dare to ask. After all she had survived, Arya deserved every happiness she could carve for herself. And she would always have a home at Winterfell, regardless of her distaste for court life. But had that distaste turned to hatred? For what possible reason?

Jon’s eyes were shadowed with grief. Of all his former siblings, Arya was the one he had been most over protective of. Robb and Arya had vied for the favoured position in Jon’s heart. Now, it seemed they were both lost to him.

Arya was their sister. But Arya had been forging an armoured fleet in secret, and had refused an invitation to her King's holdfast. It was no less than a declaration of war.

Sansa collapsed into Jon’s arms then, her nails digging into the meat of one shoulder and his opposite forearm, as she muffled her screams, clutching onto her husband as they wept for all the anguish they had suffered, and all the torture that was likely to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out longer than expected, there will be one more. Don't worry, all is not as it seems!
> 
> Comments are much loved :)


	4. Chapter 4

“A healing salve, mother?”

Sansa stifled her laugh at her darling boy’s obvious disappointment. She and Jon had agreed to face the North with calm serenity. Nothing good would come from outward misery and suspicion. This was the moment to band together and remind everyone that their way was the old way. They were a Kingdom united once more; united under Jon’s banner and battle prowess, united under Sansa’s hard-won lessons in politics. War with Arya would destroy them, emotionally, but it could not be allowed to destroy their legacy. The pack survives, but the lone wolf dies. No one would ever call Sansa a kinslayer, but the gods take Arya, if she dared to be a lone wolf, and rise up against them. They were the Starks of Winterfell now. No one, not even her sister, was going to take it from them.

So the celebrations had continued as planned, and they had welcomed their loyal bannermen one after the other, as gracious and warm hosts, with wide smiles. And if any of their guests were unnerved that the men sworn to House Stark, all their personal guards and soldiers, were fully armed and had been forbidden to drink, no one was crass nor foolish enough to mention it. Cregan was not allowed out of the nursery; Pod and Wylla were watching over him, when Sansa was required elsewhere. Ghost shadowed the steps of her two eldest sons; ignoring the boys attempts to shoo him away when he sat in front of rooms Jon had forbidden them to enter, such as the kitchens or his solar.

Uneasiness settled like a shroud across the faces of the old; she turned from Lord Glover each time he attempted to catch her eye. This day was for Sedrick; they could prepare for war after. They just needed to get through this day without incident, then the games could begin. If Sansa thought on it too long she would be swallowed by her sadness. But she was a wolf, and she would stand firm, and any who sought to move her would feel the sting of her fangs.

The day had progressed without incident; all the Houses had broken their fast in private, followed by an archery competition for the older youths in the courtyard. Everyone had clapped and cheered when a Manderly won. Then they had proceeded to the throne room, where the Houses had approached, the most ancient first, to give their gifts to Sedrick. He had practically been hopping with excitement. She and Jon had elected to give their little prince their presents last.

Sedrick had been thrilled with his gift of a new cloak from Lyanna, and House Mormont. It was Stark grey with black edging, and a fine thick fir round the trim. In truth it was a little too large for him, but Sedrick would grow into it. The care that had gone into the detailing, a wolf proud and tall, which would hang boldly a his right shoulder as a symbol of protection, was obvious. Sansa was extremely moved by the gift, especially because she knew how little Lyanna cared for embroidery and other traditionally feminine arts. The little lady bear had apologised for the lack of smoothness in her stitches, but Sansa loved the rugged strength of it, and told her so. As usual, Lyanna had blushed at the praise, unaccustomed to courtly speeches that were not focused on battle strategy or rationing provisions.

Sedrick had been equally pleased by a spear from his beloved aunt, the Lady Meera, who had presented alongside her tiny, polite son. Quite forgetting his courtly manners, Sedrick launched himself into an embrace with Eddard, who rocked back on his heels in surprise. But little Lord Reed accepted his cousin’s arms immediately. The two boys had clung to one another with affection, until Eddard was released, so that Sedrick could marvel over his new weapon. The spear was made for a boy of ten, not five, which Jon gently informed Sedrick.

But Jon also promised his second son that he could practice with it, once he had displayed enough skill with a blunted sparring spear. Sedrick was easily mollified. House Manderly had gifted him a lovely silver clasp, shaped like a wolf’s head, a perfect match for his new cloak. He also received a book of Northern history from House Glover, and riding gloves and spurs, and an intricately carved chest to keep them in from House Karstark. The turncloaks had been accepted back into the fold despite their treachery, having bent the knee when Jon was named King.

But Sansa would never give Alys Karstark a position of glory nor power. During the dissolution of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa had her married to Davos Seaworth, knowing the man to be lowborn, but honourable. She was not Cersei Lannister; she didn’t want the girl to suffer for the pleasure of it. She simply wanted a trusted man rewarded, and a disloyal house tamed. Jon had been furious, but the deed was long done by the time he returned from King’s Landing. Sansa had witnessed the bedding herself; it could not be undone. It had been a point of contention between her and Jon for some time, but mostly forgotten when Alys Seaworth had given Davos a daughter, and the girl seemed content with her lot. Having been considered a traitor’s daughter once herself, Sansa knew the girl could have suffered far worse, and refused to feel shamed for her decision.

Today, Alys Seaworth was seated placidly beside her husband, her hand on her stomach, fat with child. No doubt she was hoping for a son to name Karstark, and leave her family’s legacy to. But Sansa would never allow it, not even if it caused more ire in her own marriage bed. Karhold belonged to House Seaworth now.

Sedrick was thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention, a spot usually reserved for Ellon, as the Crown Prince and heir to the Kingdom of the North. He tried to maintain some decorum, regardless of gruff Northerners and their cheers each time he displayed some spirit. Sansa wanted him well respected in the North, but not a complete savage, as Rickon had been said to become. It was a delicate balance, but she relished the challenge. Sedrick was trying his best to not pout over her present to him, of a healing salve she had been taught how to make by her mother, which was common in the Riverlands but not so readily available in the North.

She told him so, and he perked up at the idea of something related to his Tully ancestry. The Boltons had burnt or otherwise destroyed most of her parents’ possessions, and Sansa had torn down her mother’s Sept. The little of her parents’ heritage that remained needed to be cherished.

“Besides, my dear prince,” Sansa said airily, as she gestured for an attendant to present another gift, “You will need it for your training.”

Sedrick’s pout grew into a huge grin as he pulled back the fabric to reveal a beautifully carved weirwood bow and a quiver of training arrows. He thanked her profusely, giddy with excitement. Sansa leaned over to whisper to Jon, that he had better get on with his spectacle, if he didn not wish their son to rush off to test out his new bow, and neglect all their guests. Jon laughed, but heeded her words. He gestured to the attendant that held his own gift.

A tough oak training sword brought appreciative applause from the crowd, but it was the riding reigns of tight black leather that Sedrick jumped about for, shaking with effort to restrain himself, until Jon quit his teasing. The King allowed their boys, accompanied by the other children, to rush ahead to the stable yard. They were closely followed by their guards and Ghost, who trotted after the shrieking children.

The bay mare had clearly been purchased from the Vale; though Sansa loathed any thought of Baelish, Robyn had grown into a useful ally and she had no urge to relinquish his favour any time soon, though the world South of the Neck could be swallowed by the waves, and Sansa would not weep. Sedrick babbled to his friends about her beautiful flanks and hair, remembering to thank his father, before rushing away to admire her hooves. Sansa allowed herself to laugh, trying to ignore the ghosts of the family that should have been there to witness her son’s joy.

She stepped back, lest anyone see her sadness, and soil the atmosphere for her son.

“Your Grace, if I may?”

It was Samwell Tarly; the round-faced Maester was watching her with sorrow-filled eyes. She gestured for him to follow her through the winding corridors, until she reached her own solar. No one followed them, but Sansa knew she had nothing fear from the Maester. He was utterly devoted to Jon. He was a sweet, summer soul, not likely to ever raise a hand in anger.

Once they were safely inside, Sam passed her a letter. It was sealed in black wax, with the familiar ridges from Arya’s swordhilt, Needle. Her sister used other weapons also, but the tiny sword was always kept close.

Sansa’s breath stilled in her throat. What horrors awaited for her on that parchment?

Ignoring the tremble in her fingers, she snatched the letter from the Maester’s fingers, breaking open the seal with an audible crack. Sansa devoured the words within, her sister’s familiar spiky letters.

Tears were dripping from her chin, before she even knew she was weeping. Sam started towards her in concern, but Sansa waved him away, and demanded instead that he fetch Jon.

Alone, she read over the words again. In her heart, she knew it would do no good, regardless of her haste. Arya would be long gone by the time they reached Sea Dragon Point. For her sister was not arming herself against her family; Arya was setting sail, and not to Braavos or Pentos or even Asshai.

Arya was sailing West of Westeros, a place no one had ever returned from. Sansa fell to her knees and sobbed, for her sister, who would surely perish, and for herself, for she truly was the last of her siblings in the North. And underneath the tears, there was laughter too, because if anyone could survive and thrive in whatever was out there, it was Arya.

Sansa dried her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, and stood, ready to receive her husband. Whatever came, they faced it together, as they always had. They were the wolves of Winterfell. They didn’t need anything else to survive; nothing but each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it :) This is my first Game of Thrones fic and I enjoyed writing it. I make no promises, but maybe I will dabble in this verse again. 
> 
> 7x01 was excellent, I'm sure something will inspire me. And hopefully inspire all the excellent writers were are lucky to have in the fandom!


End file.
